‘This is the second ring road,’ says Peter Dunne, pointing to the overhead bridge that crosses the junction. ‘It was completed with these new elevated sections last year.’
‘Lori posted pictures of it,’ I say. ‘She can see it from where she lives.’
‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘There’s a bus service on the ring road – it’s a good way of getting about. It connects to the Metro, which is closer to the city centre.’
‘How long have you been in China?’ I say.
‘Fifteen years,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘It must have changed a lot,’ Tom says.
‘Beyond recognition,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘with the explosion in economic growth, construction, infrastructure. Immigration here is mainly Chinese, coming in from the countryside and smaller towns in their thousands. The population’s seven million in the city itself, fourteen million in the municipality, and growing.’
An industrial revolution for the twenty-first century. Not unlike what happened in Manchester in the nineteenth but at a far greater pace and on a much bigger scale. Through the window I watch the crowds on the streets and think of the massive changes they’re living through, coming from paddy-fields and apple orchards, from rearing pigs and chickens to a world of marble-floored shopping malls and the Metro, to disposable income and the daily commute.
We turn left and the traffic halts again. In the shadow of the flyover, under the ramp, there is a paved area with some planters around the edge and, in the middle, half a dozen people are moving in formation, one arm slowly lifting, elbow bent, hand cupped, head bowed. Tai chi perhaps. Then we sprint forward and they are gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The car makes its way down a narrow, tree-lined street, with shops at ground level. The buildings here are older, five or six storeys high, clad with coloured tiles. Most of the balconies are hung with laundry. A man with a conical hat is sweeping the pavement with a broom.
We turn into a gap between two buildings leading to a parking area. There is an automatic barrier across the entrance and a guard box at the side. The driver speaks to the guard and the barrier goes up. A row of police cars is parked along one wall; they have white bodywork with a red stripe along the sides and a fancy crest, a bank of red and blue lights on the roof.
The driver parks. We get out and follow Peter Dunne back to the street. The police station, a white-tiled block with a blue sign outside, is smaller than I expected. Inside is the reception area, a white room with a low ceiling and a long fake-marble counter with Sub Branch of the Chengdu Municipal Public Security Bureau written across the front. Behind the desk is a row of officers in black uniforms, one in civilian clothes, each at a computer terminal. Peter Dunne speaks to one and shows his ID. The man makes a call.
We wait on computer chairs in front of the counter. Facing us on the back wall is a large crest, like the ones on the cars, a garland of leaves around a silhouette of the Great Wall and five gold stars. There are several blue signs around the room with black and white Chinese writing. I can’t read any of them apart from the plaques in English on the doors: Duty Room, Training Room, Registration Area and Offices. On the end wall there is a colourful poster of the young Mao, surrounded by flowers, no doubt proclaiming some message of exhortation. There’s a water cooler in the opposite corner of the room, near to a rotating fan. And a clock on the wall. Three large potted plants provide a little greenery.
One officer has a book open and is copying characters from it onto a pad of paper. He gets up to answer the phone each time it rings, having to undo the plastic buckle on his belt, which is laden with equipment, and adjust it each time. He is too skinny or the belt too heavy.
It is hot, my hair sticking to the back of my neck. The fan doesn’t do much more than stir the air around; the breeze is warm, not cool.
Tom tips his head to the Chairman Mao picture. ‘ “Let a hundred flowers bloom.” ’ I shake my head, I don’t know the reference. ‘It started out as a way of encouraging criticism,’ he says, ‘and once people had put their heads above the parapet—’
A man comes through, short, stockily built, wearing smart, pressed trousers and an open-necked white shirt. He speaks to Peter Dunne and they shake hands. Then Peter Dunne introduces us: ‘Mr and Mrs Maddox, this is Superintendent Yin.’
The policeman takes my hand. His grip is faint, barely a squeeze.
‘Nǐ hǎo,’ he says to each of us. Hello. And we reply likewise.
Superintendent Yin takes us through the door marked Offices and into a small room. It is bare, functional. There are half a dozen white plastic chairs arranged around a trestle table. A water cooler in one corner, a pedestal in another with a pot of spiky succulents on it, a clock on the wall.
Superintendent Yin sits at the head of the table with Peter Dunne to his right, Tom and I opposite the diplomat. Superintendent Yin has a folder. He flips it open and my heart contracts at the picture of Lori, paper-clipped to a printed form full of Chinese characters.
Superintendent Yin speaks and Peter Dunne translates: ‘Superintendent Yin will give you an update of the results of the inquiry to date.’
The policeman refers to the pages in the file as he talks, and it looks to me as if he’s reading verbatim what is written there. He pauses and dips his head, signalling to Peter Dunne that he should interpret for us.
‘After visa and passport-control checks showed that Lorelei had not left the country, the police visited her apartment and, as you know, found it empty. The door was secure and there was no damage. There was no passport found. Interviews with her friends in Chengdu did not provide any explanation for her disappearance. There has been no response from her mobile phone and attempts to trace that have not yet . . .’ Peter Dunne hesitates, as if he’s working out a better way of explaining what’s just been said ‘. . . yielded results.’
‘What about the English school?’ I say. ‘Five Star. Why didn’t they report her missing, if she suddenly wasn’t turning up for work?’
Peter Dunne relays the question. There’s a long reply from Superintendent Yin. Then Peter Dunne says something else, gesturing to Tom and me. The language is full of vowels, with sh-shing and ch-ching consonants, the pitch swooping up and down. The two men go back and forth and I try to work out the meaning from their body language. Superintendent Yin looks solemn, a little blank, even, as if he is the reluctant partner in the conversation. Peter Dunne is leaning forward, exerting pressure, perhaps. At last he sits back, places his palms together on the table. ‘So,’ he says, then turns to look our way, ‘here’s the thing . . .’ That phrase sounds odd coming from him, one of those picked up from American TV that has now gone global. We need to talk. Back in the day.
‘. . . Five Star English is not actually a registered school or an official agency.’
‘What?’ Tom says.
‘It’s a shell, a front for making money by getting visas for international workers in return for a fee,’ Peter Dunne says.
Tom groans. ‘So they don’t exist, Five Star?’
‘No.’
‘And Lori?’ I say. ‘Does that mean she was working illegally?’
He hesitates, rubs his head with one finger. ‘Freelance work is not permitted in China. International workers are expected to be employed – if they lose their job the right to remain, to temporary residency, also goes. The type of work Lori was doing, taking on clients herself, making arrangements directly with them, it’s all part of the black economy.’
I wonder how she paid for the visa – out of her first wages? Or did she use some of the money Tom sent? Did she understand it was illegal?
‘Have they spoken to whoever sold her this visa?’ Tom says.
There is more to-ing and fro-ing between Peter Dunne and the policeman. Superintendent Yin’s replies are getting terser. He must be pissed off at the situation.
‘It is in hand,’ Peter Dunne says eventually.
‘Which means nothing,’ Tom says.
‘Could her disappearance have something to do with this – this dodgy visa?’ Tom says.
Superintendent Yin thinks this is very unlikely.
The policeman speaks again. Peter Dunne nods in agreement. ‘Every year,’ he explains to us, ‘the police do a sweep of the bars and clubs that are popular with ex-pats, checking that people have the correct visa and are registered with the police. Some people just stay on after their tourist visa or their last work visa expires.’
The policeman speaks again.
‘Yes, it is a big problem,’ Peter Dunne says.
He says something else in Chinese and Superintendent Yin resumes his report. ‘Enquiries continue and the last communication from Miss Maddox was on Monday, the seventh of April . . .’
Monday. Not Friday when she went to the party. But two days later.
‘. . . at . . . twenty past ten in the morning. When she texted a message to . . .’
Superintendent Yin swings his report round and Peter Dunne examines the entry. They swap words for a bit and then Peter Dunne says, ‘Shona Munro.’
‘Shona, yes,’ I say. One of the friends, Lori mentioned her on the blog and in an email, Shona makes jewellery out of waste material.
‘An invitation from Lorelei to meet on the Tuesday or Wednesday.’
Superintendent Yin speaks. Peter Dunne listens, then says, ‘Shona replied on the Monday afternoon but heard nothing back from Lorelei.’
More from Superintendent Yin, and Peter Dunne says, ‘The text message cannot be verified.’
‘What does he mean?’ I say.
‘The message was sent from Lorelei’s phone but they cannot be sure that Lorelei sent it.’
My skin goes cold. I shiver in the stuffy room.
Peter Dunne nods to Superintendent Yin and listens to what he says, then tells us, ‘Lorelei was last seen in Chengdu on the Sunday evening, the sixth of April, when she taught one of her students at his home. The class finished at seven p.m.’
‘Who was the student?’ Tom says. ‘What did they say?’
We wait for the translation. ‘There was nothing unusual about the lesson and nothing out of the ordinary, as far as Lorelei’s demeanour or behaviour went. She said she would be there the following week. This is officially the last confirmed sighting of her – Sunday, the sixth of April.’
‘We need to change that on the flier,’ I say to Tom, ‘on the website too.’
He nods. ‘Is there anything else?’ Tom asks the consul.
That seems to be it.
‘What happens now?’ I say.
‘The search will continue,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘and Superintendent Yin says he is hopeful that Lori will be found safe and well. That she is travelling in China, perhaps, as she thought of doing.’
‘Where are they looking?’ Tom says.
An exchange in Chinese, and Peter Dunne says, ‘These are operational matters. When any information comes to light you will be informed.’
‘What about the gay scene – was Lori part of that?’ Tom says. ‘Is there a gay bar, a club? Have they talked to people there?’
Peter Dunne speaks to Superintendent Yin, who gives a smile, uneasy. I wonder if he is embarrassed.
‘In due course,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘In due course? It’s over two weeks since they were alerted,’ Tom says. ‘What are they waiting for? He does know she’s gay? That she and Dawn were together?’
‘He does.’
Superintendent Yin sits stony-faced.
‘Is there going to be a problem?’ I say to Peter Dunne. ‘Will this affect how he does his job?’
‘Not at all,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘Homosexuality is not illegal in China any more but is often viewed with suspicion, and there are no civil-rights laws protecting gay people as there are in the UK. But Superintendent Yin is aware of Lorelei’s sexuality and her relationship with Dawn.’
Peter Dunne speaks to the detective and Superintendent Yin frowns, says something, frowns again. Peter Dunne talks some more and finally Superintendent Yin gives a swift nod.
‘I told him you will be visiting the apartment and talking to Lorelei’s friends,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘and that the appeal is on the Missing Overseas website and we’ll be doing some leafleting where Lorelei lives and where she spends her time to publicize the case. Do you have the draft for the leaflet?’
I find it. ‘We need to alter the date,’ I say, and pass it to Superintendent Yin who scrutinizes it. He points to the phone number for the police and they seem to be debating it. Then Peter Dunne changes some of the figures.
‘Is there CCTV where Lori lives?’ Tom says.
They speak, and Peter Dunne says, ‘No, but there is a security gate at the entrance and the guards there have been spoken to.’
‘And?’ Tom says.
‘No help, I’m afraid.’
I swallow. ‘I have things of Lori’s, for the DNA.’ I’d wrapped the freezer bags in brown paper, and now I take the parcel from my bag.
‘Thank you.’ Peter Dunne gives me a look of sympathy and explains to Superintendent Yin, who takes the bag from me.
The officer closes his folder, placing the bag I have brought on top of it. He speaks, looking from Tom to me.
‘Superintendent Yin says that Chengdu is a very safe place,’ Peter Dunne translates, ‘and the Chinese people very law-abiding. The PSB will do all they can to find Lorelei.’
The policeman adds something.
‘He wishes to emphasize that Chengdu is very safe,’ Peter Dunne says.
Superintendent Yin gives a nod. ‘Chengdu very safe,’ he says, in a thick accent.
‘Right,’ Tom says sarcastically.
‘It’s true,’ Peter Dunne says, unruffled. ‘There is very little crime, compared to London, New York or Paris. This is a very safe city.’
‘Try telling that to the dissidents,’ Tom says.
‘You’re entitled to your opinions, Mr Maddox, and you’re right, critics of the regime are dealt with harshly, but that has little to do with the situation we find ourselves in.’ It’s a smooth put-down. Tom compresses his lips and looks away.
We are dropped back at the hotel, and as soon as the car has left, I round on Tom. ‘What are you playing at? We need the goodwill of that policeman, not to get up his nose making sarky comments.’
‘He couldn’t understand,’ Tom says.
‘He probably got the gist,’ I say.
‘What did we learn?’ Tom complains. ‘They’re keeping stuff from us, Jo, the text to Shona, the lesson on Sunday. We should have been told about that as soon as they found out. They say we can be involved but it’s lip service.’
‘OK, so we know that now. We’ve met the man leading the search, we know they don’t have CCTV at her place, that she was still here as normal on Sunday. It all matters. Yes, we’re here by invitation, on sufferance, if you like, that’s just how it is. Just fucking grow up—’
He touches my arm.
‘Don’t,’ I say, rearing back.
He glares at me, then turns away.
‘The leaflets?’ I break the silence.
‘I’ll sort it out,’ he says. ‘I’ve got all the details.’
‘OK. I’ll email Nick and Missing Overseas – get them to change that date.’
An enormous coach, full of tourists, pulls up in front of the hotel. I go in to beat the rush. The lobby is hushed and cool, a balm.
I amend the dates in my head: Missing since 6 April 2014. Today is 3 May, a Saturday. Lori has been missing for twenty-seven days. Four weeks tomorrow. So very long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Anthony, the interpreter with whom Missing Overseas has put us in touch, meets us in the lobby after lunch. He’s young, I estimate late twenties, and attractive, with the sort of sculpted cheekbones and even smile that you see on male models. He speaks excellent Engl
ish with an American tinge. He looks as if he is dressed for business, in a crisp shirt and black trousers. We go over what we want him to do and he seems perfectly at ease, though I imagine it must be very different from most of the work he gets.
He has engaged a driver who, he explains, will want a tip as well as his fee. I give Anthony Lori’s address. Dawn is going to show us round the apartment.
The car is a Lexus, slick and white. The driver uses satnav. We wait at lights where workers are erecting hoardings along the edge of the pavement. They wear yellow hard hats and blue boiler suits. The two closest to me are women.
‘It’s always busy,’ I say, as we queue in heavy traffic.
‘Yes.’ Anthony turns back to us to reply. ‘One day a week, each car is banned from driving to help with pollution.’ The lights change and we creep forward. At the side, a parade of scooters streams past us.
‘See the coats,’ I say to Tom. Several of the riders wear their jackets back to front. It must afford them some protection from dust and draughts and the fumes. They remind me of Finn and Isaac dressing up as superheroes.
I see Dawn as we pull in to park. She looks much like her photos – about the same height as Lori but plump with frizzy red-brown hair, her face sprinkled with freckles, a broad nose and large round eyes.
She looks anxious as we meet. I feel the same: nerves grip my stomach. We shake hands, which feels formal, a little awkward. Hers is warm and moist.
We introduce Anthony to her.
‘You’ve still not heard from Lori?’ Dawn says.
‘Nothing. We’ve been talking to the police this morning. They didn’t give us much idea of where they’re looking,’ I say.
‘Playing their cards close to their chests,’ Tom says. ‘Not exactly big on sharing. You kept your keys?’
‘I never got a chance to give them back.’ Dawn reddens, plays with her lip, pulling at it, a nervous tic, I think.
‘You know Shona?’ I ask her.
‘Yes.’
I explain about the text. ‘And on the Sunday Lori was teaching, so that’s officially the last contact.’ A couple carrying shopping bags approach and we shuffle aside to let them pass.
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